


Preening

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, Sass, tending injury, wing porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4343753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“There are feathers out of place,” he admits.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Feathers out of place,” echoes Alex, brows raising. “The same feathers that can stop a barrage of bullets. Those feathers.”</i></p><p>  <i>“Those feathers,” Michael snarls softly, boots crunching heavy against the glass as he tries to step by. “They can still be bent, twisted the wrong way, broken in half. There are nerves at the base, blood vessels in the larger ones.”</i></p><p>Michael has some feathers to unruffle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preening

**Author's Note:**

> Our first foray into this fandom! We are still getting the voices so be patient with us, any and all feedback greatly appreciated! We look forward to writing more, this was a hellofalot of fun :D

Alex figures he should be used to crashes, sparks flying, screeching and bared teeth. He sees it often enough outside the walls of Vega, often enough inside the walls of damned Vega. And still he stirs from the mass of sheets in the huge bed when he hears the shattering of windows and the loud thick thud that follows.

It is never dark in Michael’s eyrie, too high above the city that never sleeps, curtains always open so he can see it. No regard for the mortals he drags to his bed - or fights off with sticks, more accurately, with the throng of them that ooh and aah when Michael walks by in the streets - that might _need_ the dark to sleep properly.

Alex digs his way from the blankets and sits up, hand beneath the pillow still, against his gun, the other up to rub his eyes. The main window has shattered, sending glimmering sparklings of glass along the floor, and letting in the cold desert wind from beyond the scooped out city. On the floor, in a trembling pile of dark-ash feathers, lies Michael.

“What the hell.” Alex moves but not quickly, enough to yank his boots on over bare feet and pad in just them over the crunching glass to his wayward mentor. “Michael?”

There is movement, rising and falling breath, a slender leg drawn up to push the archangel to his back. He lets his leg slip flat again and spreads his wings wide. From the grimace that tugs up his lip, the change in position does little to ease his pain. Black eyes blink once, twice, as he follows upward from clumsy boots to strong legs, cock and belly and his Father’s writing.

“Did I wake you?”

Alex blinks at him, brows furrowing before lifting his eyes to the shattered window again, jagged edges still stuck to the metal bars that held it in, once.

“No,” he says, tilting his head again. “I was waiting with open legs and open arms. You usually stick the landing. What happened?”

He takes a step to be more parallel with the angel blinking blearily up at him and finds the change in light is enough to pull his brows down deeper again.

“You’re bleeding.”

Michael hums. He lifts his fingers to his bottom lip and studies the blood that sticks to them, inky black in the low lights. Careful not to set his palms to the snowfall of glittering glass, he instead offers his hand to Alex, who jerks the angel unsteadily to his feet.

“I was being ridden,” Michael says, voice low and resonant and strangely calm despite the spray of glass still stuck in his skin, his wings shaking in betrayal of what the rest of him would not show. “Have you ever needed to pull an eight-ball from your back while not losing your momentum in flight?”

Alex snorts. “Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s difficult,” answers Michael, wry. “Pity whomever was beneath when I finally dropped him.”

Alex hums and folds his arms over himself, as though they would retain any of his dignity. The angel’s seen him in every sense possible, it hardly matters if he’s fully dressed or moaning expletives into the pillow. Or standing in front of him dressed like the lead in a cheap porno.

“You’re shaking,” Alex points out, narrows his eyes when Michael tilts his head in that coy cryptic way he does.

“Hardly.”

“Your wings.”

The angel’s eyes slowly close and open again and he presses his lips together as Alex regards the wide, dark things that usually so quickly and efficiently close when Michael has no use for them. Something occurs to him and Alex steps closer.

“You can’t close them, can you?”

“Did you say you were waiting with your legs open?”

“Sarcasm. Don’t change the subject.”

“You could be, still.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

Michael’s lips twitch into a thin line. He lifts his shoulders, only an incremental movement, and pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth - jaw set hard - before he can swear. An uncharacteristic hint of sweat shines on his brow.

“There are feathers out of place,” he admits.

“Feathers out of place,” echoes Alex, brows raising. “The same feathers that can stop a barrage of bullets. Those feathers.”

“Those feathers,” Michael snarls softly, boots crunching heavy against the glass as he tries to step by. “They can still be bent, twisted the wrong way, broken in half. There are nerves at the base, blood vessels in the larger ones.”

Alex sets his hand splayed against the angel’s chest before he can think better of it and raises his eyebrow at the glare he receives in turn. Long gone are the days where that was enough to have him back down for fear of the whip.

He’s long ago stopped fearing the whip anyway.

He feels the tension shiver through the body the angel possesses and curls his fingers against the thin shirt he wears.

“Get on the bed,” he says.

“Alex.”

“Or on the floor for all I care. Lie flat so I can turn the things back. Unbend them or, whatever.”

Michael’s eyes narrow. For his love of blood and battle, swaying the tides of war with his presence and his sword, soaked to the hilt in gore, Michael does not prefer pain as a sensation. There are moments that it is expected. Moments that it adds a particular thrill, lighting up neural networks and nerve pathways that force truly torrid sounds from him, altogether too human in those instances. But his suspicion of this is laid clear, even as he takes a step back towards the bed.

“Why are you wearing boots?” Michael asks, toeing off his own with twin thuds as they drop down the small stairs leading to the bed. “It seems impractical to be so bare otherwise, although I can’t say I mind terribly.”

He unbuckles his belt and lets his pants drop, revealing impossibly long, slender legs, snug boxers that hug to narrow hips. Michael reaches for his shirt but cannot remove it, not with his wingspan so wide.

“The glass,” Alex reminds him. “You know, the window you just smashed all across the floor?”

Michael moves to the bed and brings up one knee, then the next. He bends slowly, teeth bared in pain as he skims his hands forward. His back bends deep and his hips raise as he lowers himself to his belly. Something in his gaze is wary, beyond the pain, as Alex thumps closer.

“Perhaps we should wait and see if they turn themselves.”

“I prefer not having a faceful of feathers when I’m in bed with you.”

“You have never minded a faceful of anything,” Michael comments, and hisses when Alex sets his hand between his shoulders, between his wings, and presses him down.

“Stay.”

A thud, another, as Alex kicks his boots off to fall beside Michael’s in a tangle, and moves to straddle him carefully. He is surprisingly gentle moving Michael’s wings up over his thighs as he settles closer, ass against the comfortable curve of the angel’s back, feathers splayed over his legs.

He can see those that are bend out of shape, a few barely hanging on by tendrils of torn skin, others that are facing the wrong way to those beside them. They look a mess, hardly the groomed and sleek things Michael enjoys enveloping them both in when he pins Alex to the wall or crowds him in bed. It’s unnerving to see them like this.

“Some will have to come out.”

“Some often do.”

Alex snorts quietly and lets his fingers curl at the fine hair on the base of Michael’s back, his other hand skimming gently against a feather he will have to pluck free.

“Breathe,” he advises, and as soon as the angel takes a deep breath in, Alex pulls the thing free.

The curse comes in Enochian, rattling harsh against the pillow that Michael holds to with both hands. The sigh that follows carries on it an almost obscene relief, a muffled moan. Alex can feel the tremors now. It’s a rare lack of control in the archangel who bears himself with precision in every way.

“You’re enjoying this,” Michael accuses him. He turns his cheek against the pillow, one of too many across the bed where they sleep. Velvets and silks, high-count cotton, an array of sensations intermingling whenever they move. Dark eyes focus on the blonde sitting astride his back as Michael watches balefully over his shoulder.

“Sounds like you are too.”

There are so many, hundreds of feathers all glossy black, shining slick like oil. Michael’s spine curves, hips arching upward and down again as Alex seeks out the next that disrupts the sleek pattern, and he holds it by its base to tug. It doesn’t come loose as the first one did, and Michael’s lips lift in a silent snarl.

Alex turns the feather instead, rightside out, and Michael hums his relief.

His muscles tense and relax, his head bows down against the pillow and when Michael settles again, Alex watches the way the blush he had barely held back against the tops of his cheeks fades to pale skin once more.

He seeks out another feather to turn, careful to make sure he turns the right way, and not further out to hurt the angel more. It’s strange to think that such things, strong enough against bullets and falling debris and all manner of hell - could be so sensitive to a simple tracing of a fingertip.

And Alex does trace, for himself if nothing else, until there is a far too pleased rumble from beneath him and he stops, for just a moment, and sits closer instead. Against the bed, Michael rubs his hips and settles once more, fingers flexing in the sheets as he opens his eyes to regard his charge again.

“This is a ritual, isn’t it,” Alex asks him, skimming his palm across the marginal covert of the left wing, curling his fingers into the downy feathers until Michael curses again and it sounds like a prayer. “Grooming.”

For once, there is no reply. For once, there is just a trembling that runs the entirety of Michael’s body, that shivers through the feathers beneath Alex’s hands. He leans further over, pressing his chest against the place where the two mighty wings join to Michael’s human form, and grins when the angel all but moans at the sensation.

Without a word, Alex reaches to turn another bent feather, deliberate in tugging it first before setting it comfortably still, leaving his palm to press against it before burying his fingers in the thick dark feathers.

“Oh,” sighs Michael, reverent of the nearness and releasing himself to the pleasure of the chosen one’s heart against his back. His feathers ruffle and spread, rising fluffed as Alex’s hand strokes through them and sending goosebumps across Michael’s skin. He has always been enraptured by the ebb and flow of senses in this semi-human form, tangible in a way that Heaven was not. Given over to new experience and pleasure of every sort, for the angel of war, he is just as passionate in his embrace of pleasure.

“Preening,” he tells Alex, hips turning in languid, lazy thrusts against the bed. “It is an act of intimacy. Care given by the one in attendance,” he says, hissing as another loose feather is pulled free. “And vulnerability from the one being tended to. We are not helpless, this way, but it feels -”

Alex turns another feather into place, and Michael’s hips jerk in response.

“It feels exposed, to leave them free in this way.”

Alex hums, spreads his arms wide to try to reach the furthermost feathers on each wing, finding their span to be far, far beyond his human form. He curls his fingers and sits up again, drawing his hands against the grain of how the feathers lie, enough to pull a shiver and sound from Michael, but not enough to twist more out of place.

"You should leave them free more," Alex suggests, grinning when Michael shoots him a look over his shoulder. "See how vulnerable we feel, for a change."

Another deft twist of his fingers has Alex undoing more damage, running his fingers over the feather he just corrected as though to soothe it down. Every brush of hands against them sends humming through Michael's bones, pulls his back to arch, to rock down against the bed.

It is a welcome sight to see Michael beneath him, for a change, vulnerable where he is usually anything but. It's a look that suits him. Alex spreads his body over him once more, curls one arm beneath his chin and turns to watch as he fiddles with the last feather, tugging it, turning it, until Michael whispers a soft curse against the bed, rocks his hips down harder.

Alex’s cock settles firm in the cleft of Michael’s ass, hugged tight by his sleek black briefs. He ruts in rhythmic tandem with the shifting of the archangel’s hips, wrapping a hand over the base of one strong wing to give himself purchase as he grinds.

“Why this form?” Alex asks against Michael’s back, lips parted at the base of his neck. He is surprised, truly, that Michael has allowed them to lay like this for so long. The archangel does little he does not desire, though, and so Alex shoves against him a little harder, tugging rough sighs from them both.

“As opposed to -”

“Why did you pick it?”

“Aesthetics,” Michael answers, teeth gritting in pleasure as Alex’s rocking drives his own stiff length against the mattress. “Less startling to humans than appearing as a pair of flaming wheels, covered in eyes.”

“Is that how you really look?” Alex stops his movements for a moment, eyes widening.

“Some of us,” shrugs Michael. His feathers whisper a soft susurrus as he does, moving neatly together once again, interlocked and laid flat even as he stretches his wings wide.

“You,” Alex says again, and Michael arches a brow at the demanding tone.

“Have many more wings than these. The single pair seems imposing enough. We do not take the pleasure you do in vulnerability,” Michael says. He reaches back for Alex’s free hand to twine their fingers together, Alex’s palm to Michael’s knuckles. They squeeze together, hips and torsos and hands. “You humans are wonderfully made, certainly, but also fearfully. Your weakness is your gift, given to finding awe and reverence in the Divine.”

“Is that what you tell yourselves?”

“That’s what our Father told you,” Michael smiles, eyes narrowing in amusement. He closes a wing back and Alex ducks flat with a curse. Holding the blonde’s hand tight in his own, Michael turns them both, Alex from atop and Michael sliding over to pin him on his back, unfathomably strong in a way that seems effortless. His wings wrap over them, blocking out the light, and Michael sets a firm hand beneath Alex’s throat, turning his head aside to bare his neck. “Humans, by their very make, enjoy submission.”

He squirms, he always does, instinct running wild in him to flee, having spent so long as a child learning to. He accepts the claiming kiss against his throat with a hum, brows furrowed and lips pressed together. He likes it, always has, since the first time Michael had pinned him and started this, but hell if he would make it an easy process for the archangel. 

"Is that what you tell yourselves?" He asks again, grinning when the wings stretch above them in a deliberate flex and settle.

"We may be weaker in our mortal forms, Alex, but we are far from blind."

Alex's fingers snare in the shirt Michael still wears, he squirms beneath him enough to hook his heels against Michael's calves and pull him closer by spreading him in turn. Two bodies rutting together beneath an indestructible canopy. Michael tilts his head, a shadow of a smile on his stark features that just barely lifts his top lip, narrows his eyes.

"Your pulse has sped."

In answer, Alex reaches to grab against the tight shorts Michael still wears and squeezes.

Michael lets out a groan, low and resonant and altogether human. His cock rises back against Alex’s grip, its head peeking stiff above the waistband of his shorts. He curves his back and drives down against the familiar fingers that grasp him, seeking with dark, unblinking eyes over the mortal beneath. His thin shirt catches against Alex’s wrist as he slips his other hand over the archangel’s firm stomach, his smooth chest. Dark nipples peak stiff under work-rough fingers, and Michael turns Alex’s head further aside to suck another mark against his throat, just beneath his jaw.

“Turn over.”

Alex barks a laugh and shakes his head, much as he can held firm beneath Michael’s hand.

“Turn. Over,” Michael rumbles against his ear, a smile flickering wide when Alex snares him with legs over narrow hips instead. “Disobedient,” he scolds him. “Should I make you?”

“Isn’t that the only language you understand?” Alex replies, turning his head enough to catch slender fingers between his lips, between his teeth, and gently bite down. Michael is, despite his chosen form, not fragile. Some of their nights together resembled fights rather than lovemaking, bruises and scratches and bites littering their forms after, the morning sun crawling over them through the curtains torn from the round railing around the bed.

Alex sucks, eyes narrowed, and curls his tongue beneath the pad of one finger, tasting the iron tang there of the dried blood Michael brought with him.

“Make me,” he challenges.

With a sigh, Michael slips his palm across Alex’s cheek, and snares it hard around the back of his neck. He jerks him upward and pushes their foreheads together, noses brushing, lips achingly close but not meeting yet.

“I wonder, often, if this is my Father’s greatest accomplishment, or His greatest mistake,” purrs the archangel. “Free will.”

He leans back on his knees but Alex comes with him, ankles locked together over Michael’s hips. The archangel laughs, nevermind whatever injuries he took earlier in the night. The stubbornness of humanity - of the Chosen One in particular - is always a delight to experience, and increasingly a welcome challenge as Alex grows in strength and capabilities. Alex folds his hands against the back of Michael’s neck, his entire weight upheld by the angel as they pant together, brushing lips but not yet closing to a kiss.

Not yet.

Alex’s teeth are bared, lip snarled up as though in anger, but it is the same as a puppy who growls at the alpha of its pack. Michael smiles, allows his own lip to tilts in a snarl back. Alex arches his neck and brings them closer still, breath mingling and quick, hot against their lips and cheeks and chins. Eyes hooded, to see, hands gripping tighter than they need in a playful show of dominance.

“You’re jealous,” Alex whispers. “Of free will because you do not have it.”

The words tug at the muscles beneath Michael’s eyes, drawing them narrow as his smile widens just a little.

“Because of my Father.”

“Yes.”

“Who is gone,” Michael reminds him, spanning slender fingers into Alex’s hair and fisting them tight enough to bend his head back.

“Misbehaving because dad’s away?” Alex grins.

“We’re not so different after all,” agrees the angel, and their mouths clash. Lips twist together, tongues split past and their kiss batters bruising against the other. Alex rises higher, thighs tightening to near discomfort around Michael’s waist, cocks rubbing stiff friction between their bodies as they rock together. Michael sucks Alex’s bottom lip between his own, catching it in his teeth, dark eyes glinting black through long lashes as he opens them enough to watch ruddy red flood the chosen one’s cheeks.

His wings flex and twitch, showing as much emotion as his being and bearing does not. They’re nervous, they’re impatient, strong muscle curling and stretching the wings wide before settling. It is almost a threat, on territory or pride or both, and Alex reaches to grasp his hand in the feathers again, fingers holding tight, grin pulling wide when MIchael hums a growl deep in his chest in response.

It is never slow with them, motions are hardly sensual when they are in the throes of lust together, and Alex’s back strikes the bed again, hard enough to wind him, hard enough to dislodge his legs a little from Michael’s hips, though he holds on just as tightly to the wing as before.

“Let go,” Michael warns him, smile predatory, a showing of teeth in a sadistic pleasure rather than a gentle one. He is a warrior, he is bloodthirsty in all he does, whether blood is involved or not, and he is exceptionally possessive. Alex just grins. Shakes his head.

“Stay like this,” he says instead.

Divine or not, even angels have their limits. Michael rewards Alex’s stubbornness with a fresh bruise sucked beneath his jaw, teeth grazing against it, leaving him another mark that he will have to make excuses for to his fellows in the Angel Corps. Noma in particular will give him hell about it, Ethan right in line. He grits his teeth as the kiss becomes painful, hands against Michael’s shoulders but despite the archangel’s lean body, he can’t usurp him.

He doesn’t want to.

Not when Michael spreads his wings wider for Alex to grip from above, grasping their bases to hold firm. Not when Michael shoves lower his shorts and pulls Alex’s leg higher to spread him wide. Not when Michael slicks his own fingers in his mouth and presses them unrelenting inside his charge, eyes hooding as Alex groans a curse that sounds like a benediction.

It is a claiming rather than a courtship. But then it always was, really. Since he had ‘chosen’ Alex, since had watched over him without preference to help beyond making sure he didn’t die, giving him no privileges, no assistance, just constant vigilance. Alex was always his, and in some way he always knew it.

Didn’t stop him from rebelling and reminding Michael what he had cultivated.

They both love it.

It works well.

One finger becomes two, becomes three and Alex’s fingers slip to the longer feathers that cross above his head like the steeples of a church, a sick sort of monument, but he does worship them, despite his hissing and his snarling, he watches the angel in reverence, when he is pushed enough in sweat and heat and pleasure he moans his name to the heavens. Whatever is left of them.

“Still feeling vulnerable?” Alex pants, fingers tugging lightly at the wings until Michael tugs back, pulling Alex’s arms higher up, stretched further.

“Marginally less so.”

“Marginally.” Alex’s voice is stolen before he can say much more, thighs trembling and muscles pulled taut. This is the first time the feathers aren’t tickling delicately over his skin, teasing him to near-insanity. This is novel and frightening to see their strength and Alex shivers for it.

Michael watches the chosen one’s reactions, responses writ in slack-mouthed moans and goosebumps. His heart races, his blood pulses quick, his cock leaks against the fine pale hairs of his belly and across his skin is carved the writings of his Father.

Their Father.

He is beautiful in his weakness and his power, not yet fully realized. He does not know the effect he has on the archangel who has looked over him for so long, given over to him now in glorious abandon. Michael draws his fingers free as Alex fumbles beneath the too-numerous pillows for wherever the lube has gone, and sets his hands to either side of Alex’s head.

The archangel shrugs, head tilting to pull his graceful neck long. His brow creases and he gasps as another set of wings unfurls.

Another.

Six in total, the two that spread a wide wingspan that Alex knows all too well, and two smaller sets, one above and one below.

Alex’s eyes widen, and for once, he stops squirming, watching with parted lips and flushed cheeks the sheer majesty and power above him. He knows the archangel is powerful, he makes it clear enough in his carelessness for anything that isn’t, but there is something truly divine, truly frightening about seeing him this way. 

It is almost, he thinks with amusement, demonic.

They are all black, covering whatever light the city provides through the shattered window, enveloping them both where Michael bears down on the boy in his bed.

“Much better,” he purrs, dropping his eyes down between them before lifting them once more, the meaning clear. Alex snorts, but slicks his fingers regardless, eyes taking in the sheer scope of the wings around them both.

“Show off,” he breathes, slipping his hand down to stroke against Michael’s cock, slow and deliberate, how he knows Michael likes, his form or his entire being he can’t be sure.

“Underachiever,” Michael responds, but his voice cracks on the word as Alex squeezes firm around the head of his cock. A groan is all he can manage then, hips rocking forward into the mortal’s grip, the lubricant providing smooth passage through the tunnel of Alex’s hand. Michael leans low and lets their lips tangle again, tongues twisting in combative ferocity, and he reaches between them to lightly smack Alex’s hand away.

Instead, the archangel takes himself in hand, wings trembling and feathers rustling, as he lines himself against Alex’s opening and presses in. One hard, deep drive, enough to push a curse and all the breath from the chosen one beneath him. Alex’s legs pull tighter but shake despite, pale thighs quivering from the force of being filled so suddenly.

He settles, slowly, easing in open relent to the fullness of the archangel’s cock inside him. A shiver tightens the length of his body again as Michael pulls out, and Michael steals his next curse with a consuming kiss as his six wings flap fierce in unison and he fills the boy again.

It is only here that they slow, and only occasionally that it happens. Alex twists his hands free enough to seek out the new wings, as well, gasping when he feels some feathers sharper, like blades, others downy soft and almost delicate. They are a juxtaposition, as Michael himself is. Protector and killer. Master and obedient son.

Always, though, always a good fuck.

“If you’re not careful you’ll summon someone,” Alex pants, laughing when the wings flex again, the smaller pair twitching in a gentle curl as the others unfurl and tremble. They all move entirely on their own path, their own thoughts and motions. He wonders if each represents a different part of the angel’s mind. Id wings, ego wings, superego wings.

He thinks of the association with the old-world psychosexual doctor.

“Perhaps company would be welcome.”

“You would share?” Alex grins, parting his lips on another choked off groan as he squirms back against the pillows, both wanting more and wanting it to stop - too good, almost, too much.

“With whom?” Michael asks, considering with faint amusement as he slips his hand between their bodies to take Alex’s stiff cock in hand. He allows a faint smile, eyes narrowing. “My siblings would certainly come, or try, anyway. They would be sorely disappointed by the outcome.”

His feathers ruffle higher with every sharp thrust. Rising in time with his ardor, his wings stroke in time with the movement of their hips together, with his hand around the chosen one, pulling breathless tremors through them both. His teeth graze the corner of Alex’s jaw, tense around his earlobe enough to hear him cry out, and drag towards his mouth to smother the breath from him entirely.

Faster, wings and soft fabrics whispering together with every thrust. Harder, enough to ensure that Alex will feel the pull of muscle between his legs tomorrow and think of his guardian angel. Fiercer, they dash their kiss together and their voices rise in dissonant harmony.

He is a stubborn creature, headstrong and disobedient, as Michael himself was, as Michael himself feels the tug to be so often. He enjoys watching him, righteous and angry, quick to learn and quicker to help. A strong heart and an open one. It will destroy him, one day, he knows, but he would hardly have Alex change.

Michael thinks of Alex bare in his boots, carefully turning feathers flat, written guidance - meanings yet unknown - mapped in ink against the muscular lines of his body. When he comes it sunders their kiss with a cry. His wings splay and his body goes rigid, but for the quick and heated pulse of his cock.

Alex turns his head so that their lips still touch, both their mouths open on harsh breaths and heady sounds, noses rubbing together in a claiming familiar nuzzle, sweat slicking their hair to their foreheads, tangling blond and black until Michael turns his wrist just so and Alex arches off the bed entirely, allows himself to come as well, messy and thick between them.

For this, Michael opens his eyes. Always for this. His own pleasure still echoes through his limbs, every finger and every toe, every feather on every wing. But it is nothing compared to the near-pained bliss that tightens and spills across Alex’s face. Sweat breaks along his brow as his lips part panting. Heat spreads between the slow, steady shifting of their bodies together. Patches of crimson darken his cheeks and his pupils edge out blue.

What Michael can only mimic, though to no small amount of pleasure, is nothing compared what Alex must feel when his all-too human needs are altogether indulged.

Without mind for their shared mess, Michael lays heavy atop Alex, still buried inside him. Their hearts race together, their shared sweat and Alex’s semen comingle. The archangel ducks his brow against the chosen one’s temple, and whispers kisses against his cheek. Alex’s quaking fingers settle in Michael’s dark hair, damp now, shot through with hints of grey along the sides.

“Will you wait for me tomorrow, with legs spread?” Michael murmurs. “I will attempt not to take out another window in reaching you.”

Alex snorts, turning beneath Michael to settle more comfortably to the bed - their bed, if he ever admits it - fingers still flexing through the silken strands of Michael’s hair. He watches as he folds his wings once more, first one set, then another, then the last, one wing brushing fond against Alex’s side before it vanishes with the rest.

“You are more than welcome to take out your entire eyrie in reaching me,” Alex mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “If you’re the one that cleans the mess up afterwards.”

“While injured?” Michael asks, nuzzling into the crook of Alex’s neck, long limbs strewn half over the smaller man, curled at his side. “I think you’ve forgotten for whom you work.”

“Pulling rank on me in bed? Low, Michael.”

The archangel lets his smile widen. “Looking for a reason to use the lash again.”

Alex’s smile pulls wider and with a sigh he parts his lips, letting his eyes open as well, just enough to meet Michael’s where he lies, languid and spent, like a cat in the sun. It is as much an empty threat as it entirely is not. It depends fully on the archangel’s mood at the time, on his whims and impulsiveness.

He tugs Michael’s hair deliberately and shifts as though to get up, finding a firm arm clasping his side to hold him still.

“Tomorrow,” Michael decides, pressing hot breaths to Alex’s skin, breathing him in, in turn as he lets his eyes close again. “When there’s better light, and I can appreciate you in your boots that much more.”


End file.
